


Listen Close

by fleete, readbyjela (jelazakazone)



Series: podfics [25]
Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Audio Format: M4B, Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, Community: pt-lightning, F/M, Frottage, Masturbation, Podfic, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Collaboration, Podfic Length: 0-10 Minutes, Shame, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-09 21:20:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleete/pseuds/fleete, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jelazakazone/pseuds/readbyjela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Content Notes: non-consensual voyeurism, masturbation, serious moral shame (Ichabod's) (see end notes for more info)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listen Close

**Author's Note:**

> Non-consensual voyeurism: Ichabod accidentally sees Abbie masturbating for about 3 seconds. She doesn't know he's there. He leaves, but he can still hear her and sits and castigates himself for staying put while listening to her orgasm.
> 
> Music is Fischer Store Road by Sarah Jarosz.

You can stream this work here:

 

[You can download the MP3 here](http://jelazakazone.parakaproductions.com/%5Bsleepyhollow%5Dlistenclose.mp3)

[You can download the M4b file here](http://jelazakazone.parakaproductions.com/%5Bsleepyhollow%5Dlistenclose.m4b)

Ichabod wakes with a jolt, blinking into the darkness for disorienting seconds while he tries to remember where he is. He’s uncomfortable and overheated, the small of his back and the undersides of his knees sticky, but his feet are cold where they’re hanging off the edge of—

Ah.

Sofa. The cabin sofa.

It had been a late night of tedious research. At some point, when the strain from squinting in the unnatural computer light had finally taken its toil, and Abbie had taken to grinding the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, there’d been an argument about who would sleep where.

“There’s no way in hell you can fit your whole body on that couch,” she’d said. But Ichabod had pressed her, and she’d rolled her eyes and muttered about chivalry before wandering into the bedroom.

Ichabod’s cold now. He curls up, barely managing to get his entire body under the blanket, and he’s about to drift off again when he hears it.

Abbie moans.

Ichabod’s instantly on alert, feet touching down on the rug without a sound, and he rises. Could it be the demon they were studying? Moloch himself? Or perhaps—Lord, he’s leaping to conclusions—perhaps just a nightmare. But still, Ichabod fetches the gun from the kitchen table as he passes it. As a precaution.

He treads lightly down the short hallway in the dark, guided by a muted light from his bedroom. The door is cracked, and he lifts the gun even as he glances through the opening, sees her upon the bed.

God above.

His freezes for one breath, two, and then he turns on his heel as silently as he can manage, replaces the gun on the table, and returns to the sofa.

He sits there, blinking rapidly, as if that will make him forget what he’s just seen.

It’s no good. It’s almost like he’s still standing there, the picture of her is so clear in his head. She lay on her stomach, naked except for the shirt rucked up under her armpits, propped up on her elbows. One of her hands was fisted in the linens; the other cupped a breast. Her skin glowed faintly golden in the lamp light, and her face—. She’d been…moving. Undulating. Rubbing. Against something—it must have been a pillow—bunched up between her legs.

Ichabod’s warm all over. Damn _everything_ , he’s aroused.

He realizes with a wrench in his gut that he can still hear her breathing. Panting.

“Oh.”

It’s a sigh of a word, reaching his ears with disturbing clarity. The cabin feels perilously small, and the walls seem like paper, for all that they keep out the rustle of the bedclothes.

He should leave and wait outside. But no, he realizes almost as soon as he thinks of it, he can’t. She’ll hear the open and close of the door, the hinges squeak so loudly, and then she’ll know he was listening, and he’ll never be able to look her in the face again.

Honestly, he may never be able to look her in the face again as it is, but if she knew he had listened to her doing something so intimate she would also not be able to look at him. Abbie is so ferociously private, so guarded. Every time she lets him into her confidence, he feels the honor of it, all the way down to his bones, and to steal this from her sends a shudder of repulsion through him. The way she would avoid his eyes, if she knew. The way she would turn cold. He can’t bear the thought of it.

His self-disgust is not enough to calm his ardor, apparently. His cock twitches feebly against his thigh.

The rustle of the linens grows rhythmic, accompanied by a squeak of the mattress. And there’s another sound, more fleshy, like she’s running her hands over her own skin.

Is that what that sounds like? Skin on skin? Ichabod fists his hands in the blanket at his hips to avoid finding out.

He’s heard of women touching themselves, of course. But he’d always imagined they did so with their hands. He’d never imagined this sort of…rutting. It’s more animalistic. And yet. Abbie had looked so soft and elegant doing it, even with the unmistakably carnal hitch of her hips.

He shouldn’t be thinking of it. This is a betrayal, and not just of Abbie, but of Katrina too. His mind flies for an exhilarating, obscene second, picturing _Katrina_ rutting against a pillow, but her body morphs before his eyes into Abbie’s. Her arse was so beautiful, the curve of it calling out for his touch— _fucking fuck_ , he hates himself. He feels faithless. He feels foul.

He feels as if he might spend in his trousers.

She’s gasping.

He should cover his ears. It is unquestionably the right thing to do.

“Oh god.”

He can’t. He can’t. If he releases his death-grip on the linens, he’ll touch himself. He will compound this sin in the worst way, he knows he will.

Her voice gets louder for a moment: breathless, if stifled, moans that coast up loud and sharp, and then go quiet.

Perhaps she achieved her aim.

Christ, she must have. What must her face have looked like? He sees her mouth, dropping open, her shoulders shaking, her thighs tensing around the pillow. She must have gotten it wet, that pillow. It must be positively _soaked_ with her fluids.

Ichabod's cock pulses and lets slip a spot of pre-come. He can't hear her breath anymore, not over his own, Lord, his chest heaves with every sharp breath, but he doesn’t release his hold on the blankets. He will not touch himself, not even if—the pre-come drips down the length of his cock and Ichabod trembles—no, not even if it kills him.

He breathes through it for countless minutes until his erection has finally died. When he finally lets go of the linens, he does so as an old man, his hands aching as if arthritic.


End file.
